His mind woke to find his body lit from head to toes with white-hot lust. Pure, shaking, shuddering lust. And he found himself poised on the brink of pulling Gabby’s dress up, or down—it hardly mattered. On the brink of thrusting himself into relief, into the silky heat that he knew would mimic the welcome of her mouth. Hard shivers shook her body as he rubbed his thumb over her nipple, and she strained against him, murmuring unintelligibly.

But alas, Quill’s rational mind had fallen back into place. He waited until Gabby opened her eyes.

She lay back against the Persian carpet, her hair loosed from its pins and spread around her head in waves. A smile trembled on her lips. “I burn,” she whispered. “I pine, I perish.” Her hands reached up and cupped his hard face.

“Will you kiss me again? Will you …” But she couldn’t bring herself to the question she really wanted to ask. Of course it was Quill she wished to marry. Of course it was Quill she wished to bed.

His eyes met hers with perfect understanding. “I will kiss you every time you ask,” he said. “And I will marry you, Gabby, if you’ll have me.”

Gabby blinked. “Do you love me?”

“I fell in love with you the moment I saw you on the dock,” Quill answered. It was almost too prompt, his answer.

Gabby sat up. “I am not sure of my feelings,” she said hesitantly. “I am not sure that I love you yet, Quill. But I think it will not be difficult.”

A smile twitched at the corner of Quill’s mouth. Thank goodness he was free of the twiddle-twaddle associated with romantic love! It was so clearly self-delusion. Gabby, who had considered Peter her true love a mere five hours before, was well on her way to being in love with him.

“That would be nice,” he said gravely, picking up her hand and kissing the palm.

Gabby began fussing with her bodice. Her hair swung forward over her shoulders.

Quill couldn’t stop himself from touching it. It was such a lovely bronze-brown color, streaked and shadowed like the pelt of a wild animal. Gabby’s curls had no similarity to the pale, confined ringlets that were exhibited by most young English ladies.

“Oh, blazes!” Gabby said impatiently, hauling at her sleeve. “Madame Carême’s dresses are naught but a few bits of cloth, barely sewn together. I shall have to find someone else to make my clothing if I don’t want to be half dressed most of the time!” She was chattering in an effort to ignore the prickly feeling in her stomach, the embarrassing warmth between her thighs.

Quill grinned. “I like Madame’s gowns,” he remarked.

Gabby managed to wrench the sleeve of her morning dress back into place.